


Io Saturnalia!

by Sineala



Series: Chosen Man [2]
Category: The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Military, Fluff, Holidays, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-04 23:45:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1087086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sineala/pseuds/Sineala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story set in the universe of "Chosen Man," in which Marcus and his optio Esca go to Calleva for the holiday of Saturnalia, and Marcus learns valuable lessons about making assumptions about what other people know about your religious observances. Also there is cuddling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Io Saturnalia!

**Author's Note:**

> This is shameless holiday sappy fluff. I wrote this shortly after I wrote [Chosen Man](http://archiveofourown.org/works/681763), because for some reason I couldn't get the idea out of my head that Marcus should still go meet his uncle in this universe; it will probably make very little sense if you haven't read the other story first.

_I, Esca of Aquila's century, ask that you consider me a worthy person to whom to grant leave at Calleva._

Marcus frowns at the tablet and looks up across the desk, at Esca, who is grinning. He can't help but smile back. "Carantos swore you'd never taken a day of leave, Esca, but even you should know the petitions for leave go to the tribune. Not me."

Esca, still beaming like he is the cleverest man in the world -- and Marcus certainly thinks he is, for he thinks the world of him -- laughs as he wraps his cloak around himself in the winter cold. "You asked me to come with you for Saturnalia. I only wanted to make it official, sir."

"We've discussed when you should call me 'sir,' and I think this particular situation doesn't merit it." Marcus snorts. "Optio."

Esca waves his hand in something that might have been, once, a salute. "Well, _centurion_ , I'll be taking this to Suilius, then, shall I?"

"He doesn't like you, you know."

"He owes me," Esca says, firmly. "He owes us. For all we've done, he can at least give us this much leave. He could give us a year off and I think he'd still owe you more. Paetinus can watch the men while we're gone. And if you've changed your mind about the thing, you can say so. The gods know that when you told me you wanted me to meet your family you were so--"

Marcus shuts his eyes and wonders how Esca will manage to succinctly describe the sated, blissful evening where, after being fucked until he couldn't stand up until morning, he had proceeded to offer Esca all the riches of the known world and share with him all his hopes and dreams. And apparently he had outlined his mad wish that Esca should come with him, home with him, for a festival day. He wanted his family to meet Esca, as his friend, as his fellow-soldier, even if they couldn't know--

"--drunk on happiness, let's say," Esca concludes, "that you might have told me things you didn't intend."

He's had enough problems with this. He's better now. "I meant it," Marcus says. "Every word."

Esca smirks. "Even the words where you praised my--?"

"If you want that sort of flattery," Marcus says, refusing to take the bait, "ask me when you're not on duty. As you know."

Esca laughs, then runs his hand through his hair, and his expression abruptly turns more serious. "Really, though, Marcus -- I would understand if you didn't actually want to bring me with you to meet your uncle." He looks unaccountably nervous. "I know I am... hard to explain, and I would not want to cause difficulties in your relationship."

How could Esca possibly be this nervous? "I met him once. I was six. There isn't much there that could be ruined," Marcus says. "And I wanted you to meet my family. Besides, you said you'd never celebrated Saturnalia, and that was sad. I thought you should have the chance to."

The grin Esca gives him is the exasperated one he usually follows up with "Romans!" and he laughs a little. "Well, then, if it is truly what you want..."

It is. Oh, it is. The amount that he cares for Esca is vast, the sort of love that poets devote endless couplets to. Sometimes he has written them himself on the edges of maps. The entire century seems to find it charming, although luckily they are all professional enough that they only tease Esca in the evenings when none of them are on watch.

He must be smiling soppily at Esca again, because as he watches he can see the annoyed look soften.

"You don't even have to answer," Esca says, quietly, and reaches out to stroke his hand.

Before Marcus can do anything about it, Esca has picked up the tablet again, and is heading out of the tent in a jingle of metal. "I'd better go get the request in, eh?"

Marcus' request has already been made. He picks up a stylus. Time to tell his uncle about the additional guest. The presents, of course... those have already been arranged. Or at least, he is almost done. He will be done by the time they leave. There is not much more to go.

* * *

For all that civilians complain about traveling, Marcus has always enjoyed it. The roads from Trimontium's stables south are long indeed, but the journey is pleasant. No one is trying to kill either of them; the Votadini and the Selgovae, always at each other's throats, have even put off their feuds with each other for the moment. And Marcus is not even that cold, now that he has learned to dress like the tribes, with layers and layers of wool, braccae and long tunics doubled one under the other. He has a uniform with him, of course, to impress his uncle and any guests he might have, but for now all that would mark either of them as soldiers is the weaponry.

The Wall, Marcus is pleased to see, is well-maintained, and he returns the salute of the soldiers manning it as they pause a little in their journey.

"Hail," Marcus says. "How fares the border?"

The nearest man, a common soldier with twenty years on Marcus, furrows his scar-seamed face. "I think you'd know more about the frontier than I would, sir."

"We're scouts," Marcus returns. "We only know about our patch of forest." And at this Esca laughs, as Marcus intended. He likes to try to make Esca laugh.

The man scratches his head. "Well, there's nothing much to report, centurion."

He used to hope that one day these men would have word of the Ninth, of his father, of the five thousand who marched far past Trimontium. He knows they never will.

Marcus nods briskly. "Io Saturnalia, soldier."

"That's not for days, sir." He looks a little confused.

"It will be when I get where I'm going." Marcus finds he is smiling. He is looking forward to this. He has never served where he could have a leave to spend with family, and now he can spend one with his family and Esca! He only hopes his uncle is nice. They have exchanged letters, of course, but it is hard to tell.

"Good journey, sir," the man tells him, and Marcus nudges his horse on.

* * *

Eight days of long, dusty riding later, they are in an inn an hour or two from Calleva. Truly the traveling has not been so bad, except for the long stretches of Brigantes lands, out past Eburacum, with the twisted burned remains of things that had once been buildings. Esca had said nothing, but had only huddled close to Marcus at night under the blankets and not let him go until the morning.

They are well away from that. And, what with all the travelers, they received the last room in the inn; the innkeeper, apologetically, told them they would have to share. Marcus had not minded in the least. Now Esca smiles sleepily, burrowing into the straw mattress as Marcus, shivering a little in the morning cold, begins to don his uniform, armor and all. It is a little chilly for it, but even though he is not on official business, he wants his uncle to know he is a good soldier.

Behind him, Esca yawns and probably stretches, though Marcus would have to turn around to see, and if he looks he knows he will never finish putting his clothes on. "You could come back to bed?" Esca offers, and the lazy invitation in his voice is unmistakable.

"I wish I could," Marcus says, hooking the mail at his throat, "but it is Saturnalia, after all, and my uncle is expecting us today."

The floorboards behind him creak with footfalls, and then he feels Esca's arms around him.

"We could be late?" Esca suggests against his shoulder blade.

He pictures making explanations to his uncle, whom he barely knows: _I apologize for arriving on the second day of Saturnalia and missing the first; I was urgently distracted by the need to fellate my traveling companion, and events progressed from there._

"No," Marcus says firmly, removing Esca's hands from where they have begun to wander farther down his torso. "It's Saturnalia. Io Saturnalia, by the way."

He feels something that might be a nod of acknowledgment, against his back. "Are you going to say that all day?"

"Esca," Marcus replies, as seriously as he can, "I am going to say that for seven whole days."

He isn't sure, but he thinks he hears Esca sigh.

* * *

"Io Saturnalia!" Marcus calls to the children in the back of the wagon that clatters down the road ahead of them.

The children giggle in delight and wave. "Io Saturnalia!" the older one, a girl, yells back.

Next to him, Esca's stifled laughter is barely audible over the hoofbeats. "You really did mean it. Marcus, is this your favorite thing about Saturnalia?"

"Hardly!" Marcus turns and grins at him. "You should see what you'll be wearing!"

Esca's frown looks distinctly alarmed. "Why, what will I be wearing?"

He doesn't know? Surely there have been enough Romans at the camp, over the years, that there must have been some sort of proper celebration. It is a good thing he thought to buy clothes for both of them.

"Just how much do you know about Saturnalia?"

Esca's gaze is still dubious. "Apparently not enough."

"It will be fine," Marcus assures him. "You'll like it! I like it!" 

"You know, when they told me it was your midwinter celebration I thought it would be... dignified."

"No," Marcus says, "this is actually the fun part." And he smiles and smiles as they ride on. Definitely his favorite festival, and it is much easier to admit that now than it used to be. It is the one time when all the rules are reversed, when there is freedom, and he thinks, from the past year, that it is a thing he has grown to enjoy.

* * *

His uncle has a villa on a lake, outside of Calleva proper, and Marcus cannot help but admire it as they ride up in the midday light. His uncle has done well for himself. Slaves, today wearing the pileus, are there to take their horses and belongings; even though it is Saturnalia, someone still has to tend the beasts.

He and Esca are ushered inside by the door-opener. Marcus is only aware of his own nervous heartbeat and the sound of his boots, too loud on the tile; no doubt someone will offer him indoor shoes. Then all of his other thoughts disappear as an older man rises to greet him, smiling. The man is bearded like the emperor and clad in the loose synthesis that the holiday permits everyone to wear.

"Uncle?" Marcus says, and the word echoes awkwardly in his ears.

The man smiles back. "Marcus."

Marcus nods, unsteady, and has a brief terrified flash of _oh, what should I do_ before he finds that almost without meaning to, his arms are held wide and his uncle is embracing him, as one does with one's kin. Something relaxes within Marcus. It will be all right.

When the hug has finished, his uncle holds him at arm's length, by the shoulders, still grinning. "How like your father you look, my boy. Welcome, welcome!"

"Io Saturnalia," Marcus offers, and he hopes that behind him that is not the sound of Esca sighing.

"Io Saturnalia!" his uncle returns, dropping his hands and finally looking behind Marcus at the other man in the room. "And this is the friend you said you were bringing, yes?"

Marcus nods and holds his hand out to Esca, who -- having tucked his unworn helm at his side, of course -- is showing his uncle a friendly, though wary, smile. "It is. Uncle, this is Esca, son of Cunoval, and the optio of my century. Esca, this is my uncle."

Esca steps forth and raises his arm for a handclasp, that Marcus' uncle gives without hesitation. "A pleasure to finally meet you, sir. Marcus has spoken very highly of you."

His uncle laughs. "He has spoken well of you too!" he says, and Marcus watches in amusement as Esca smiles in an almost self-conscious way. He can see the way his uncle's eyes are darting over at Esca, the way he jumped a little in surprise at Esca's peregrinus name, at his British accent, but he has clearly decided not to ask.

"It was the truth," Marcus points out. "For both of you."

"Very good of you, my boy," his uncle says, clapping him on the shoulder. "Now, can I interest either of you in a bath before dinner? Wash the dust of the road off you?"

"Certainly," says Esca, in his most polite Latin. "That would be very kind of you."

Marcus nods his agreement. "I think we might need a bath after dinner, too." He raises an eyebrow at his uncle. "I assume the feast will be traditional?"

His uncle laughs again, like a man used to laughing for the joy of it, and Marcus decides he likes him more and more. "With you here, of course!" He hmms to himself. "I'd better go put on a tunic for dinner."

With that, he disappears.

"Marcus," Esca asks cautiously, as a Greek slave politely shows them through the house, "is there something special about this dinner?"

Marcus shrugs and tries not to chuckle. "It is food like any other. Io Saturnalia!"

"Io Saturnalia." Esca just sounds suspicious.

* * *

They have the bath to themselves, but confine themselves only to the occasional lascivious look -- it would be risky indeed to try anything else, but that does not mean Marcus cannot look. And, oh, he likes to look at Esca, who is stretching out under the water and grinning at him.

"I think I'm going to like your uncle," Esca says.

Marcus smiles and watches as Esca lifts a leg out of the water, pointing his toes. "I think he likes you."

"That is well." Esca grins. "And it does not seem too bad to wear that garment he was wearing. I don't know why you pretended it was something I would dislike."

And of course Esca is clever enough to have spotted his uncle's clothing. "The synthesis?" Marcus asks. "I brought you one for later." He is not, of course, mentioning the hat. Esca cannot abide hats, and if Marcus finds him in February with his ears frozen off that will be his own fault, Marcus thinks stubbornly. Then he wonders if he can talk Esca into a hooded cloak.

"But we are not to wear them now?"

Marcus shakes his head. "Too bulky for dinner. Tunics, I think." He feels only a little guilty about the misdirection. It is not precisely a lie.

"It does not seem any less bulky than some of the things I have seen Romans wear for dinner," Esca says, frowning. "But if you insist."

"Oh, I insist," says Marcus, and he splashes Esca, just because he can.

* * *

"Pass the garum, please, Uncle."

He holds out his hand without looking and closes his fingers around the little container of it. The stew just needs a bit more seasoning, or it had the last time he tasted it. Marcus frowns as he pours a little in, mindful of the cost -- from the smell of it, his uncle is hardly skimping on the quality of his sauces.

"That should be enough," he says, and hands it back to his uncle who is, appropriately enough, using the fish-sauce to flavor the fillets of fish he has painstakingly arranged before him.

"I am so glad the two of you came this year!" his uncle says, sounding especially pleased. "Strong men, with good strong backs, to carry all the pots! I can never manage a proper Saturnalia dinner by myself and it isn't quite the same."

Across the crowded kitchen, the cook glowers at them, untrusting; she was unwilling to leave even after Marcus assured her that both he and Esca knew their way around a kitchen, or at least an army cook-fire.

On the other side of Marcus, Esca is scowling at a lump of dough in a bowl and trickling in more honey. Sticky-fingered, he pokes at the dough again and again.

"Problems?" Marcus asks, as sweetly as he can.

Esca bares his teeth. He is not really angry; Marcus knows him well enough to know that. "When you said there was going to be a feast for dinner I thought you meant that we would be eating it, Marcus. If I wanted to cook a glorious and delightful meal, with little time to prepare, for fifteen people, we could have stayed at the camp. It's not like I don't already cook you dinner half the time anyway." He coughs. "Sir."

"He is so modest," Marcus tells his uncle. "My optio has quite a way with food."

"Oh, wonderful!" says his uncle.

Marcus peers more closely at what Esca is doing. "And you've been holding out on me, Esca--" he stops himself from adding an endearment at the last possible moment-- "because I did not know you made cheese-cake!"

And Esca does smile at that. "Get us a cheese and honey ration, sir, and you can have all the cake you like."

"I think that is unlikely." Marcus imagines the quartermaster's face at such a request, mostly because that is safer right now than imagining licking Esca's honey-covered fingers.

"The army is as strict as ever, eh?" his uncle asks as he squeezes past Marcus to put the fish over the embers. "I hope I am not overcooking this."

"I think Marcus has some bucellatum in the bottom of his saddlebags in case of emergencies," Esca offers, and his uncle laughs again.

"This," Marcus manages with some semblance of dignity, "is not an emergency."

"Stir the stew," Esca retorts, "or it will be."

Laughing, Marcus does.

* * *

Still clad in tunics, they serve dinner to the slaves, who seem to be enjoying the whole affair with great humor. This is, after all, what you do on Saturnalia. It is mainly Marcus and Esca's task, as his uncle cannot handle the heavy serving-dishes. But it goes well, from the egg to the apples; Esca takes on this duty with all the seriousness that he would give to one of their scouting missions. 

Exhausted after the last course, they slump together in the kitchen, Esca's head pressing against his shoulder.

"Now what?" Esca mumbles.

Marcus slides his arm behind Esca and strokes his back where no one will see. "Now go put on your synthesis and your pileus, and we eat."

Esca's eyes narrow. "My synthesis and my what?"

"Pileus," Marcus says, and tries to sound as innocent as possible. "Like the slaves are wearing. Oh, didn't I tell you there was a hat?"

Esca says something extremely rude in British.

"You love me," Marcus says, cheerfully, in the same language. "And you want me to be happy on my favorite festival day. Don't you."

* * *

He has to admit to himself that the pileus looks a little silly on Esca, but that is only because the hat keeps falling over at its curve and tipping into Esca's face. Also his ears stick out.

The synthesis is very nice, though, and the blue does set off Esca's eyes in a most fetching way. There isn't much to do other than sip wine and discreetly watch Esca, as everyone gives each other presents. His uncle distributes tips to the slaves in a jingle of coins; the slaves give each other combs and baubles and other such fripperies.

Then Marcus' uncle stands up and hands him a bundle of cloth. Marcus stares at the tunic in awe. It is of the best wool, finished well, and easily costs twice as much as anything he would have bought for himself. An extravagance, indeed. He can hardly wear it in the field without ruining it, but it is finer than anything he owns.

"Thank you," Marcus says, and he truly means it. He means it even more when his uncle hands over another piece of cloth, a heavy cloak, thick and dark and exactly the sort of thing he can actually wear. This, this he can get use out of.

And he watches as his uncle hands another cloak to Esca. "I figured I should get you both something you could truly use, in addition to the luxuries."

Esca's eyes go wide. Maybe he didn't know, Marcus realizes suddenly, that gifts were to be exchanged. Someone should have told him. Maybe Marcus should have.

"Thank you very much. I didn't expect anything," Esca murmurs, looking shocked. "But if you give me a moment to go through my bags I will certainly have something appropriate."

With that, Esca rises and heads toward the guest rooms at the back of the house, presumably to the room where Marcus' uncle has put his things. Marcus ought to have mentioned the present-exchange part of Saturnalia. But truly, didn't everyone know about the presents? Maybe the Britons really didn't. Oh, this was going to make Esca's gift so awkward, if Esca were to feel bad about not having gotten him anything in return.

And then Esca comes back, setting on the table before his uncle a little carved wooden horse, an intricately-painted set of dice, and an ornate cloak-pin of Roman make. Marcus knows Esca carves things, sometimes -- but he has never seen the other items before.

"Oh, thank you, young man," his uncle says, clearly delighted. "And now we have dice for Saturnalia!" He picks up the horse. "You carved this?"

Esca nods. "I did. And I, er, won the other things. In a dice game."

Marcus, halfway through a sip of wine, tries not to laugh. He swallows with difficulty. "You won dice in a dice game?"

"Vatto's idea, sir," Esca says, and Marcus has to wonder if Esca reflexively brings out the titles because they are talking about the army. "The game becomes surprisingly different when you start wagering the pieces. Also I may have been drunk."

Marcus starts laughing; he can't help it. "That's wonderful, Esca. Oh, wait." He remembers after all his gift to his uncle. "Here, Uncle, I got you this." And he thrusts forth the scroll, copied at great expense.

His uncle's eyes are alight with the fervor of a scholar. "A book of Livy, nephew? How thoughtful!"

He smiles. "I am glad to give you one you didn't have."

"I didn't," his uncle assures him. "So thank you very much."

"If you'll have me next year," Marcus jokes, "I'll bring volume two!"

And then his uncle looks between Marcus and Esca for an instant, waiting to see if one has a gift for the other, since they are the only pair left. But Esca does not have a gift for him, Marcus thinks, and he does not want to shame Esca in front of everyone, as it would be if he gave Esca a gift; it would be like saying he was too barbarian to understand the custom. Perhaps he could just give Esca the thing quietly. It might even be thought a a strange gift for a person who is only his second-in-command, as far as his uncle knows, and Marcus does not want to rouse suspicion. Or he might give it not at all; maybe it had been a silly idea. It is not even a proper sort of Saturnalia present, and maybe Esca will hate it or be offended. Yes, it was probably a bad idea all along. 

Marcus tries to make some sort of motion to suggest that they discreetly move on. His uncle must understand him, because thankfully he changes the subject.

"Come, then!" his uncle waves his wine-cup. "Io Saturnalia! Let's drink and dice the evening away!"

* * *

By the time they are done dicing, it is bedtime. The household is entirely, soundly asleep -- Marcus can hear his uncle snoring even from here at the back of the house -- right down to the slaves and the hound. Esca even retired already for the night, earlier. Marcus clutches the oil-lamp in one hand and walks with unsteady steps to his room, trying to fight off the increasing urge to lose himself in maudlin thoughts from the wine. It should not matter so that he has to sleep apart from Esca for the next several nights. They are only one wall away, after all, since his uncle put them in adjacent rooms. And it should not matter, he thinks, fiercely, that Esca didn't get him a present. It's Marcus' own fault for not telling him about all of Saturnalia from the beginning. He should not have assumed Britons knew Roman customs; after all, he hardly knows British ones.

With these dark thoughts in his head, he pushes past the curtain.

Marcus doesn't even notice the figure on the bed until the man moves, sitting up and grinning.

"You certainly took your time coming to bed."

Marcus nearly drops the lamp in surprise. 

"Esca?"

His first thought is that he has the wrong room, but no -- he looks around frantically -- these are his things. Esca meant to be here.

Esca snorts. "No, it's one of your uncle's slaves, and I'm terribly lonely this evening. Of course it's me. Though I am terribly lonely this evening," he adds, as almost an afterthought. Marcus isn't sure whether it's a proposition or a statement of fact.

"You'd be an awful slave," Marcus says, setting down the lamp before he does actually drop it. "You'd never obey orders."

"I only obey the good orders anyway," Esca counters. "Besides, I thought during Saturnalia you got to tell your superiors what you really thought of them, hmm?"

"That's only for slaves," Marcus says, automatically, and then he realizes what Esca has said. "But how do you know that? You didn't seem to know anything about Saturnalia before."

Esca grins and pats the bed next to him; Marcus sits before he falls over, and Esca wraps him in his arms. "Oh, Marcus." Esca is chuckling. "Rome is everywhere. I could hardly avoid knowing. But you seemed to be so happy explaining it all; I thought it would be more fun to pretend that I didn't know." He runs a finger down Marcus' cheek. "And you can stop looking so disappointed now. I did get you a present." He smirks.

"Esca," Marcus says, warningly, "if you tell me you got me your cock for Saturnalia--"

Now it is Esca's turn to play the innocent. "I know how much this festival means to you, Marcus. Would I say anything so crass?"

"Yes."

Esca tilts his head, grinning again. "You're probably right, actually. But--" he reaches under the blankets on the bed for a long wrapped bundle-- "I bought you this."

Marcus unrolls the fabric hurriedly, to find... a sword. He forgoes the obvious joke about symbolism; all jokes are driven out of his mind when he sees the blade. It is of beautiful workmanship, definitely British, the sort of sword the tribes have, longer than the gladius he is used to. Just the kind of thing he can have in the field, and he would never have bought one of this quality for himself; it is clearly the work of a master swordsmith. Esca must have spent all his pay for months on this.

"I already gave you my dagger," Esca says, quietly, as if he is unsure whether this was the right thing to do, "and I thought you might like a sword to go with it. It is new-made," he adds, "not a Brigantes sword with a meaning to it, or any such thing."

Marcus smiles at him. He can't stop smiling. "You gave it to me," he says. "It has a meaning."

Esca looks -- embarrassed, is it? -- at Marcus' words. "So you like it?" he asks. "I was worried you might not."

"Of course I do," Marcus replies, embracing him. "And I got you a present too. Well, made it. And it isn't exactly from just me."

Esca blinks, confused. "Oh?"

"Here," Marcus says, and he finds the scroll-case easily in his belongings to hand over.

Esca looks at the case, amusement now mixed with the confusion. "Did you get me Livy as well, Marcus?"

Marcus grins and moves the oil-lamp closer so Esca can see the thing. "Just read it."

And Esca is fumbling open the case. He watches Esca's eyes scan the page, watches him mumble under his breath as he tries to piece together the words that are neither Latin nor Greek. Marcus' hand was never the best, and he wasn't exactly writing it in the best of conditions. Also he is unsure of the spelling; he is unsure if it even has spelling.

"This is--" Esca is still staring at it-- "this is in my language." His gaze is enthralled. "I did not know there was such a thing as a book in British."

"I am not sure myself if there was before," Marcus admits, "but I think there is now. This may be the only one. It is a very short book, though."

"What is it a book of?" Esca asks, his eyes still fixed to the page, as a delighted smile has spread across his features, and Marcus knows it was all worth it.

He clears his throat. "That is... that is the rest of the gift. I asked everyone I could find, all the Brigantes at the camp, for... stories. And I wrote them down as best as I could. Some of them told me tales of gods and such. I think some are stories about people they knew. There was this story about a beautiful cow that I am not sure if it was supposed to be funny..."

He can't think of anything else to say.

"Oh, that story?" Esca grins. "That is in here somewhere? That was one of my favorites."

"I thought," Marcus says nervously, "that since you were so far from your home, and with your clan... gone, it might be nice to have stories of your people to remember them by. I asked Carantos," he adds, "and he said it would not offend your gods to write down the stories." He hopes he hasn't offended Esca.

"No, no," Esca says, putting the scroll aside, "don't worry one bit! This is perfect!"

And then he is in Esca's arms. He is not sure in the dim light, but he thinks he saw tears in Esca's eyes.

"You are truly not offended?"

"I am the farthest thing from offended," Esca whispers, and Marcus lets himself relax into Esca's embrace. "Thank you. Io Saturnalia," Esca adds.

"Io Saturnalia," Marcus says, though he feels a little ill for having made Esca say the thing. It is not, after all, his festival. "So what do your people do at midwinter, then? I see now that I was assuming you knew all about Roman things, and I shouldn't have--"

Esca strokes a finger across his lips. "We all do what we know, Marcus. It is all right. And you gave me a gift of my people, besides." His fingers drop, so that now he holds Marcus' hand in the dark. "And our solstice celebrations are not so different as all that. Feasts and gifts and sacrifices to the gods, just the same. Many people also like to be... reminded of life and light, in a time of darkness, you might say."

"Oh."

Marcus feels Esca's hand slide under the edge of his synthesis, along his bare back.

"Come closer," Esca murmurs, "I'll show you how."

"Thought you said you weren't going to say anything crass," Marcus returns, and then gasps as Esca's fingertips slide lower. "Mmm."

"I am saying nothing," Esca whispers. "I am saying nothing at all, crass or otherwise. But I might be doing something. You didn't say there was a problem with doing anything, did you?"

Marcus grins and kisses Esca. Everyone in the rest of the house is solidly asleep, so he is not so worried, but-- "We will have to be very quiet."

"Not a problem," Esca assures him, as he knocks everything off the bed in one swipe of his leg and pulls Marcus down next to him. "I have several ideas for things you can put in your mouth."

"Oh?"

Esca grins crookedly at him. "Here, I'll demonstrate."

This, Marcus thinks, is the very best Saturnalia ever, and the best solstice, too.

**Author's Note:**

> I am actually unclear on whether Esca gets to wear the pileus for Saturnalia. I choose to imagine that he does, because it would be cute.


End file.
